He woke before dawn to a flurry of activity on his phone: it was war. “I remember the first few hours like they were yesterday — a flashbulb memory. I looked out the window and thought, I’m fucked.”

Mykhailo was living in a small town near one of the largest military bases in Ukraine; commuting an hour to school in Lviv. It was the kind of place where you could shout a friend’s name from the street and they would come down.

His father, a taxi driver, was away on the job. The rates spiked fifty-fold the day of the attack, earning him more than a month’s salary. He later picked up Mykhailo and told him they were going to his grandfather’s village, about twelve kilometers from the Polish border, to wait out the danger.

“When we got there, he told me I wasn’t staying. He had packed my suitcase. I was going to Poland.”

Mykhailo didn’t want to leave; he worried for his girlfriend. His bag was filled with ill-fitting clothes and lacked essentials. He negotiated for one more day.

He arrived at the Polish border better prepared, but alone — she had stayed behind. He was greeted by bitter cold and a line of thousands seeking refuge. “Women and children went first, but at sixteen I didn’t really count. I stood for nineteen hours, and by the end I was shaking uncontrollably. Then I waited another five hours on the Polish side for a bus.”

After days of couch surfing in Warsaw, Mykhailo found himself adrift. He could only check the news so many times. On a previous visit to the city with his father, they had come across a Steinway piano shop.

“They sell grand pianos — very different from the old, beat up ones I was used to. You can feel the difference in the travel of the keys, the sensitivity. They had rooms where you could pay to practice, but I didn’t want to beg. I asked if they knew somewhere I could play for free, and the manager offered to let me practice a few hours a day.”

Mykhailo was quickly accepted into a music school and found himself a smaller fish in a much larger pond. “In Ukraine, I was really good. Here, I was average.” He took to the Polish language quickly, though found difficulty in the finer points of pronunciation. “My Polish sounded Ukrainian, and soon my Ukrainian sounded Polish.”

In the summer of 2025, Mykhailo performed his music school recital in Warsaw. The program ran over an hour in a crowded concert hall; half-solo, half-duet. He played selections from Bach, Beethoven, Revutski, and, naturally, Chopin. It was a far cry from his musical past in Ukraine and his desperate first steps into Poland.

The performance was demanding: “You have to concentrate to play really well. I was stressed, but didn’t feel it at first — until I noticed my leg was shaking. I had to think about every note, what comes next, when to start building to a crescendo. You have to think ahead, because when you play max volume on the piano you can’t go higher.”

Despite Mykhailo’s humble self-appraisal, the judges evaluated him highly. His primary instructor, the Polish pianist Filip Wojciechowski, offered praise after the performance — an acknowledgment that he was keeping pace in a far more competitive field.

Classical music occupies a tortured place within Ukrainian culture. During the Soviet era, Russian composers were exalted and Ukrainians pushed aside. Shouting and physical abuse were common forms of instruction. Mykhailo recalls a female classmate trembling before practice; an elderly instructor punishing her missed notes with a ruler.

Mykhailo felt this diminished legacy acutely while growing up: “My friends didn’t understand the point of practicing for hours a day; there were few scholarships or opportunities.”

Still, he maintains a connection to his heritage. When asked about his favorite composers, he mentions Sergei Bortkiewicz, born in Kharkiv in 1877, who fled war and revolution, lost his home, and eventually rebuilt his life abroad. Another influence is Borys Lyatoshynsky, a Ukrainian composer whose career was shaped by the upheavals of the Second World War, and whose music resisted Soviet demands for “Socialist Realism.”

Mykhailo now studies psychology. He still plays classical piano, but has begun forming a band with friends, covering The Doors and Hendrix — a more relaxed kind of music, built on camaraderie over precision.

In the year since his recital, he hasn’t grown rusty. He sits at a Yamaha piano in David’s apartment, working through a passage before stopping midway, shaking out his hands, then starting again from the beginning.

His life in Warsaw has begun to take shape. His Polish girlfriend, Anna, also studies psychology, and works across visual mediums; from painting to interior design. She is a regular presence at his performances.

Mykhailo’s father serves in the Ukrainian military, something he speaks about with quiet pride. In recent months, he has helped organize a fundraiser to purchase equipment for his father’s unit — an effort David says is “very important and close to his heart.” He added that he admires how Mykhailo “supports his fellow citizens in every way he can.”

Asked about his current situation, his ambivalence is apparent: “I feel weird about the opportunities I have because of the war, and being in Warsaw. It breaks my heart that I am among the “lucky ones” and most Ukrainians aren’t. I am glad that I had this opportunity, but still, I experienced a lot of stress and had to overcome many problems along the way. I’ve minimized my losses.”

Recently, Mykhailo described a dream. He was on a train in Poland, trying to buy a ticket before an inspector arrived. What should have taken seconds stretched into minutes. He fumbled with the app. The language wouldn’t come. He tried to explain, unsure of what he was saying.

“I knew it was Polish,” he said. “But it didn’t feel right.”

We were met by a small oil lamp; one of a dozen unique illuminations spread across the nooks of the aged bar. Smoke lingered in the air, prompting Oskar to offer a Toscanello.

As we lit up, the Turkish bartender introduced himself; inviting our preferences before turning to his craft. Between the shadows, I could make out Victorian furniture dotting the space; patterned, tasseled, plush. Pockets of small conversation could be heard; an older, stately gentleman exited behind us with his equally-stately wife. “Jem” handed Oskar a cocktail of whiskey and, mango, of all things; a favorite of my oldest friend.

The clubs wouldn’t open for a few hours, and we were pleased with our discovery. One cocktail turned to two and then three; light banter to politics and then international affairs. Berlin, as European melting pot, seemed to invite such exchanges. Oskar’s Arabic studies, the best döner kebab, the war in Ukraine — the conversation flitted from one to the next.

Two young women attempted to enter; Jem turned them away, citing the late hour. As they backed out, he shrugged — “Not the right energy. They can be loud, filming TikToks …“ Sexist? Maybe. Wrong? Not necessarily.

Sufficiently lubricated and approaching midnight, we made our leave and headed off to the main attraction.

I hadn’t expected the Uber to drop us right at the door. I’d figured I’d have a moment to survey; to steel myself for the challenge. Instead I was greeted by the inscrutable face of the bouncer — a man whose sole vocation was to gate-keep the risqué club from vibe-killing tourists like myself.

In this moment of surprise, I defaulted to American, puppy-like enthusiasm: “Hi there! Is this Kit Kat Club?!” Without batting an eye: “Not tonight.” I shuffled away in my curated black outfit; weeks of mental role-play wasted.

Even on a Monday, there was another option. Tressor was only a few blocks away; an underground concrete bunker with significant history in the techno scene. I sheepishly apologized to Oskar for botching our first attempt, determined to project aloof confidence at our next stop.

The exterior matched my expectations; an imposing, industrial building loomed, dressed with red accent lighting. A small queue had formed by the door and another broad-shouldered man stood guard.

As we joined the line, his irritation was apparent. The party in front of us wore bulky coats; he explained they would need to check them. They stammered, switching between English and German; eliciting an eye-roll. He reluctantly let them in.

It was our turn. “Why are you here?” “Music.” “Don’t cause problems. Be respectful.” “Understood.” I stifled my relief as he whisked us inside. Stickers were placed over our phone cameras; other belongings stayed in a locker. Bass reverberated down the sloping concrete hallways as we made our way towards the music.

As the volume increased, the space widened into darkness, shrouded with fog. The occasional beam of light revealed the mass of bodies as I worked my way to the front.

Many cities have venues for dancing, their floors occupied by the most extroverted and intoxicated. As I neared the DJ, it became clear Tressor was something else. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face, much less be impressed by or embarrassed for my fellow patrons. No cell service, no cameras, not even vision — the only performer stood behind the turntables.

There are few places left to fully live in the moment; a German techno club is one of them.

4 am rolled around quickly. We stumbled into the night — sweaty, tipsy, and hungry. One German delicacy had so far eluded us, and it appeared around the next corner. Sausage, french fries, spiced ketchup; a blend of salt and fat designed for this very moment. We waited in line for “currywurst”, alongside the other early morning revelers.

As our food arrived, nature called — inconveniently. I went off in search of a discreet alley, and was quickly intercepted by a homeless man. Did he speak English? German? Who can recall. I rarely carry cash, but he caught me on a good night — I passed him ten euros. I assumed it a handsome sum for the situation.

As I returned, Oskar hovered over my food. “A homeless guy tried to eat your currywurst!” Was it the same man? We think so.

Moral of the story: if you give a homeless man ten euros, he may round the corner and attempt to eat your currywurst.

Kanye West’s comeback is in full swing following a $33 million payday for a two-night performance at SoFi Stadium in LA, and was scheduled for a headliner position at the Wireless Festival before being blocked by the UK government. This comes after years of brazen antisemitism and allegations of predatory sexual behavior in the workplace; to say nothing of controlling his Kardashian stand-in wife, Bianca Censori.

Kanye has attributed his erratic and dangerous behavior to bipolar disorder; a plausible contributing factor. That said — should a man who sold swastika tee-shirts only a year ago be rewarded and platformed, particularly during a period of heightened violence and animosity towards Jews? Is Kanye’s revival a sign of more forgiving times, or increased tolerance of the “oldest hatred”?

The discourse surrounding Ye’s chaos has often been muddy and irrational. As he spiraled into antisemitic conspiracy in 2022, the left loudly declared that “mental illness does not cause racism”; a claim lacking any scientific basis. Psychosis and mental illness can lead to a wide array of abhorrent behaviors and delusions; why would racism be exempt? The implication is that racism is purely a moral defect, untouched by the distortions mental illness can produce.

Yet, in a post-October 7th world, Kanye is finding acceptance. The backlash from corporate sponsors was louder than that of Bluesky. Is this muted response due to his recent apology, or because disdain for Jews has become increasingly common among the “antiracist” crowd?

The statement from Wireless Festival promoter Marvin Blenn is telling:

“I am a deeply committed anti-fascist and have been all my adult life. I lived on a kibbutz for many months in the 1970’s that was attacked on October 7th, am pro Jew and the Jewish state, while being equally committed to a Palestinian state. What Ye has said in the past about Jews and Hitler is as abhorrent to me as it is to the Jewish community, the Prime Minister and others that have commented and – taking him at his word – to Ye now also. Ye’s music is played on commercial radio stations in this country. It is available via live streams and downloads in this country without comment or vitriol from anyone and he has a legal right to come into the country and to perform in this country.”

Blenn begins with a riff on “I have black friends!”, but make it Jews fifty years ago. As for Ye’s ‘past,’ he released the song ‘Heil Hitler’ in May of 2025. Blenn then pivots to Kanye’s commercial success … as if popularity is a moral defense of his terrible behavior.

By comparison, Kevin Spacey was “cancelled” at the height of stardom, nearly ten years ago — despite having never been convicted and prevailing in civil court against his accusers. He remains blacklisted, bouncing around Europe and the Middle East as a sideshow attraction. Forgiveness is on the table … for one particular transgression.

To be fair, Spacey has never admitted guilt. Many other celebrities and public figures have confessed their sins, only to remain in the wilderness. A road to redemption would be a positive for society, so long as it is equally applied. Kanye skipped the road entirely, teleporting to a sold-out stadium and a huge pile of cash. What does it say that 140,000 people, in one of the most liberal states, paid to support someone with such a recent track record of hate?

Only Kanye knows his soul — he has clearly been troubled for many years. His supporters and enablers have no such excuse. Their timing — and the speed of the shift — warrant close attention.

The case back comes off, revealing gears, synthetic rubies, and wound springs. Behind the dial sits a tiny machine built to resist the inevitable forces of friction and gravity.

Donovan Paradise points to the steady oscillation as he examines the movement through his loupe. “You see that balance wheel going back and forth like a heartbeat? It doesn’t matter that the most accurate watch is digital, with no moving parts. Mechanical watches are fighting physics, on a miniature level. There’s something about the strive for perfection that does something to us as human beings.”

Paradise Time Service sits in an unassuming strip mall on the north side of Fort Wayne. Foot traffic is steady — a trickle of largely senior customers in need of $15 battery swaps. Breaking the rhythm, a high-end watch dealer arrives with a vintage Omega for service before listing it for sale. Donovan jokes he should have a desk there — his “second home.”

A Rolex Datejust sits on the timegrapher, its accuracy measured before being shipped back to its owner in Alabama. “This city is not a huge market. It’s big enough that we can operate out of it, but supplement with things from around the country. Thankfully, we’ve had a niche with vintage chronographs, and Omega more specifically.”

Donovan operates in rarified air — one of roughly three hundred watchmakers nationwide to hold the CW21 certification from the American Watchmakers–Clockmakers Institute. “To have a Rolex account, you had to be a CW21-certified watchmaker,” he explains. “It’s a grueling exam, spread across three days. It consists of written theory and a hands-on mechanical, servicing a 7750 chronograph. Of course, they introduced all kinds of errors. There was a micromechanics portion where you had to service a 6497 basic manual line pocket watch size, but we had to cut the balance staff out, take the measurements, install a new staff, do poising, dynamic poising, truing, etc. There’s something like an 80% failure rate.”

Although not from a family of watchmakers, Donovan came by his fascination with mechanics honestly. “My father was a toolmaker, my grandfather was a toolmaker, my great-grandfather was a toolmaker. I worked for them for four years and decided I wasn’t going to stay there forever. I really liked mechanical things, and I really liked making small parts.”

He found his way to horology through Watchmaking, George Daniels’ landmark book on building a mechanical watch entirely by hand. Daniels, regarded as one of the greatest watchmakers of the modern era, helped revive interest in handmade mechanical watches at the highest level. “I wasn’t somebody who got into watches for the looks,” Donovan says. “I wasn’t interested in the Speedmaster because of the moon landing.”

Though brand prestige may not be Donovan’s primary motivation, he doesn’t ignore the pull of history and lineage while working on these tiny, improbable machines. “A guy brought in a pocket watch — I think it was a Waltham, could have been an Elgin — from the late 1800s. His great-great-grandfather was the tribal chief of a Native American tribe in the area. That watch was present at negotiations with the U.S. government to establish their reservation. It was an artifact of his people from a significant moment in their history. When I handed it back to him and he saw it run for the first time, it was emotional. I felt honored that I got to be a part of that.”

Quartz watches solved many of the challenges of timekeeping decades ago. Smartwatches eliminated them entirely. Yet mechanical watches persist, sometimes requiring intervention beyond routine service.

“Fabricating parts can be difficult,” Donovan says. “Often you don’t know exactly what grade of steel or brass the original manufacturer used. If the material is too soft, it will wear prematurely. Too hard, and it will cause wear to other components. There’s experimentation. There’s delicacy in getting the fit right. At any stage, it can go wrong. You can make it all the way to the end — a week and a half in — get the temper wrong, and you’re starting over. It brings me back to my machining background, which I absolutely adore. Those are the most challenging, but also the most rewarding.”

“Challenging, but rewarding” could be a mantra for anyone who cares for one of these machines. Mechanical watches demand regular service. They must be wound, positioned carefully at rest, their crystals polished, their movements cleaned and adjusted. The responsibilities are real, but they haven’t deterred renewed interest.

“We saw, especially during COVID, a huge uptick in vintage chronographs,” Donovan says. “We’re also seeing an increase in the higher-end market.”

On the bench, the balance wheel continues to spin, maintaining its fragile equilibrium. Donovan steps away to greet a customer looking for a new band. After a brief exchange and leather selection, he returns, his attention narrowing once again to the movement.

He makes a small adjustment and watches as it steadies. The oscillation continues.

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